Narratives

My last and only time in the Crescent City, I was 20, a roadtrip pilgrimage to goth Mecca with Anna and Bennett to poke through cemeteries, corset shops and dance floors, adamant we had no interest in stalking Anne Rice.

October saw us on aeroplanes herk-jerkin to Boston that chewed us up in traffic and spit us out on 93. It was dark and stormy when we reached our destination—a New Hampshire cabin owned by Arthur’s aunt and uncle.

He shines at cutting to the chase. Upfront about openness and great at advice, our hearts have often been in the best worst place, and he never lets me get away with not knowing what I’m really saying.